


all that we see grows into the ground

by brella



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Gardens & Gardening, Pre-Relationship, Shippy Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-11-01 13:39:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17868275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brella/pseuds/brella
Summary: “We’re partners, you and I.”On a quiet spring morning, Donnel teaches Maribelle about growth. Or maybe it’s the other way around.





	all that we see grows into the ground

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zen_monk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zen_monk/gifts).



> A last-minute, under-the-wire treat for you! I know assignment posting has come and gone, but seeing someone else request my rarest of rarepairs pretty much obligated me to fill it, and I loved your prompts. Happy Chocolate Box!

“What _are_ you doing?”

Donnel recognizes the voice in an instant, though he does a pretty good job of hiding how his heart does a somersault when he does. He lifts his head, setting one dirt-caked hand on his pot to keep it from slipping.

“Miss Maribelle!” he exclaims, voice cracking. “I-I was just, er… plantin’ beets, ma’am.”

Maribelle, with her gloved hands braced on her hips and her fair ringlets spilling past her shoulders, towers over him, blocking the early morning sun. Donnel normally feels three inches tall around Maribelle anyway, even though he’s got a good ten inches on her since his winter growth spurt, but it’s made even starker now by the fact that he’s kneeling on the ground.

She purses her lips, the way she always does when she’s trying to decide whether or not she should disapprove of something.

“Planting,” she says, blinking slowly, “ _beets_.”

Donnel straightens, wiping his hands on his trousers. “Yes ma’am. It’s coming up on growing season, see. And I figure since Milord Chrom says we’ll be here a good while, and since Miss Robin says we gots to pinch pennies, what with all the expenses for weapons and such, it ain’t a bad idea to start growin’ our own food. Er, crops, that is. Ma’am.” 

Spring has come a little early this year and the dirt between Donnel’s fingers still smells a little like rain. He’d cleared this patch of land on the outskirts of the Shepherds’ encampment near a month ago, and plowed it by hand during a quiet spell between skirmishes. The potted bilberry bushes in the mess tent are fine and all, but he’d gotten the itch to work the soil, in spite of everything.

Starting tomorrow he’ll have to learn how to use a sword with Sir Frederick, and that’ll be the last of his free time for a good while.

Instinctively, he closes his hands around the satchel of seeds tied to his belt.

“You needn’t go on calling me _ma’am_ as though it’s a punctuation mark,” Maribelle says with a hint of annoyance. She bends over as far as she can to investigate while still keeping her posture. “I declare. Such little things. Wherever did you come upon the seeds?”

This, Donnel knows how to answer. He brightens. “Oh, I helped out with the tillin’ at a farm we passed not three days ago—they gave me lotsa seeds from their last harvest, in exchange. I’ve got carrots and squash, to boot! But them’s not due for plantin’ for a while yet.”

“I see,” Maribelle says. Her lips are pursing again. “One typically receives _wages_ for one’s labor in this day and age, Donnel.” 

“But that’s a fine wage for me, ma’am,” Donnel exclaims before he can remember to be meek about it. “Ain’t no better wage than seeds. They can feed a whole village, if they’re tended right. Shucks, to be honest with ya, if they’d given me coin I’d’ve just bought some seeds myself!”

A crease has begun to form between Maribelle’s thin eyebrows, stitching ever closer together as he talks. She’s folded her arms at her chest and now looks even more discerning. Donnel can’t help but feel as though he’s about to get scolded.

“I don’t mean to offend ya, Miss Maribelle,” Donnel blurts out. “I reckon you’re right; there ain’t no reason to say no to—”

Maribelle steps forward before he can finish and crouches down beside him, hands perched on her knees. Her eyes scan the patch of tilled earth carefully.

“You say this is for the benefit of the army?” Maribelle asks after a time. Her airy tone gives nothing away. She glances at him over the bridge of her nose, brows arched.

Donnel has the guts to hold her gaze for only a few moments before he starts to fidget. She doesn’t chide him for it, though. If anything, at the sight of it, something in her penetrating gaze softens, or maybe he’s imagining it.

“Sure is, ma’am,” he says.

“And do the others know about this? This… secret garden of yours?”

“Nope,” Donnel replies. “No sense in botherin’ them with the upkeep. They got enough on their minds. It ain’t much, but… well…”

He sets a self-conscious hand on the back of his neck. Sweat has trailed down from the ends of his hair and into the collar of his shirt. The skin, weathered as it is, will be burned by the day’s end. He’ll have to get a salve from Miss Lissa.

“Well,” he says again. “It’s what I’m good for.”

Maribelle watches him a moment longer. In the shade of the oak trees, her golden eyelashes look white. Donnel wants to shrink away from the scrutiny.

Then she declares, “Nonsense.”

Hurt jabs at Donnel’s chest, making him wince.

Maribelle tosses her head. “Oh, don’t give me such a put-out look. Of course I don’t mean it _that_ way.”

Donnel’s face must not change to her liking, because she huffs, and her curls bounce when she does.

She lifts one hand in exasperation. “Must I _endlessly_ remind you to cease the self-deprecating remarks? It’s a pitiful look on anyone, Donnel, but especially on you.”

“Huh? Especially on…?” Donnel trails off and points to himself.

“Don’t be absurd,” she tells him. “I do hope you’re aware that you’re _quite_ competent.”

“I can’t say as I do, ma’am,” Donnel mumbles.  

Maribelle looks at him all the way now, turning her head. Donnel is expecting a thunderous glare, but her expression is unreadable. She flicks her eyes up and down his body, as if evaluating him the same way she did the soil: with renewed understanding.

“When one compliments us, Donnel,” she says, “we typically say…?”

Donnel clears his throat, remembering his lessons. “‘Thank you, you are very kind.’”

“Good.” Maribelle nods briskly. “You see? A gentleman _and_ a farmer. Not everyone can boast of that.”

She shifts from her delicate squatting position into a kneel and reaches up, pulls a white ribbon from her hair, and puts it between her teeth. Donnel watches, dumbfounded, as she gathers her ringlets into a ponytail and ties them back with the ribbon, then pulls off her gloves finger-by-finger and sets them neatly on the grass beside her.

“Well?” she prompts him. “Don’t just sit there all agape, Donnel. Show me how.”

Donnel flounders. “B-Beggin’ your pardon—?” 

“Armies aren’t fed by one man,” she says, methodically rolling up her sleeves.

“W-Well, sure, but…”

Maribelle narrows her eyes, fingers halting over one fold. “But?” 

“I…” Donnel says, trying to get ahold of himself, which has suddenly gotten very hard since the pale skin of Maribelle’s arms has come into view. There’s one dark freckle on her right elbow and a thin, shimmering scar on her forearm. “You’ll be gettin’ them nice pantaloons awful dirty, is all—and sweatin’, a-and such…”

“Do you think me incapable of dirtying my pantaloons?” Maribelle demands with a cocked eyebrow. “Do you think it improper for me to _sweat_?”

“That ain’t it at all!” Donnel exclaims. “What do ya take me for?! I just… ain’t sure it’s the kinda thing you’ll find much fun in. Is all. I’m real happy you’re wantin’ to give it a shot; why, this land needs all the tendin’ hands it can get… and I ain’t never, never not wanted to talk about farmin’... but—”

He gestures to her a little helplessly. “Ya might not enjoy it.” 

“A proper lady always enjoys learning, Donnel,” Maribelle says. Finished with her sleeves, she slaps her hands back onto her legs with a degree of finality. “Besides, you’ve shown enough aptitude for my teachings that I ought to return the favor in kind. I shall teach you to waltz and you shall teach me to sow.”

A smile rises onto her face, elegant and simple and, as ever, breathtaking.

“We’re partners, you and I.”

She’s used the word so many times since Robin had paired them up on an excursion to clear Risen from a village, but it still feels new and astonishing to Donnel, as though he has to relearn to it each time. The branches overhead dance in a warm breeze, and the shadows of the leaves dance with it, veiling Maribelle’s expectant face. _Beautiful_ is the word that comes to mind, like summer coming to the rye fields. _Beautiful, impossible, beautiful_.

“I want to know everything you know,” Maribelle tells him. There’s a warmth to her voice he’s never heard before. She levels a finger at him in gentle jest. “Spare no detail. Do you hear me?”

 _Beautiful_ , Donnel’s heart insists, steady and sure. _Beautiful_.

He lets out a quiet laugh before he can hold it back.

“Yes, ma’am,” he murmurs with far too much devotion, and bends back over the earth, opening his fingers around the clustered seeds waiting patiently to live.


End file.
